Written in Stone (A Books by the Bay Mystery)

nature by piercing her eyebrows, wearing rows of hoops in her ears, and dying the tips of her jet strands neon pink, orange, or green. Lately, she’d taken to adding accessories to her textured bob. Tonight, she wore crimson feathers, but at the last meeting of the Bayside Book Writers, the twentysomething barkeep celebrated the final round of edits on her young adult fantasy novel by decorating her hair with glittery Hello Kitty clips.
    “That’s why you’re such a talented writer,” Olivia said. “You’re fearless in life and on paper. You have the courage to be you, but you’re also willing to be vulnerable. That’s hard when you’re used to wearing armor. Believe me, I know.”
    Millay shook her head in disgust. “What kind of crack was in that chocolate you ate? Don’t go all fortune cookie philosopher on me, damn it. Hurry up and finish that whiskey. You need to wash that sugar out of your system.”
    Olivia complied. Millay immediately refilled her glass while a man sat down on the vacant stool to Olivia’s right.
    He lifted the faded John Deere cap from his head and said, “Evenin’, ma’am.”
    “Good evening, Captain Fergusson.” She gestured at her tumbler. “Would you join me?”
    “Reckon I will. Thank you kindly.”
    When Millay had poured two fingers of whiskey, he turned to Olivia and she raised her glass. “‘May the holes in your net be no bigger than the fish in it,’” she said, reciting one of the fishermen’s traditional toasts.
    He nodded and replied with one of his own. “May your troubles be as few as my granny’s teeth.”
    Sipping their whiskey, they fell into easy conversation about the commercial fishing industry. Captain Fergusson supplied both of Olivia’s restaurants with shrimp and had recently expanded his operation. He was now her primary source for blue crab and flounder as well and she often met his trawlers at the dock when they returned with full cargo holds. Olivia would chat with the captain and his crew as she made selections for the restaurants. She liked Fergusson and, more important, she trusted him.
    Fergusson had cast off from the dock while it was still dark to fish the waters off the North Carolina coast for the past forty years. And it showed. He was grizzled, his pewter-colored beard was wiry, and his eyes were sharp from decades of gazing into the horizon. He was gruff, blunt, hardworking, and fair, and Olivia had grown quite fond of him.
    As they spoke, other fishermen drifted over and inserted themselves into the conversation. Olivia bought clams, oysters, mussels, scallops, and a dozen different fish from many of them. Before long, she called for shots of whiskey for the entire motley crew. In between swallows, Olivia praised everyone she recognized for the quality of their seafood while the men and their wives shared predictions about the summer harvest. This naturally led to a discussion about the weather and Olivia realized that to a bar filled with fishermen, construction workers, farmers, and yardmen, each day’s forecast had a direct effect on their livelihood.
    “You’d best get ready for a hot, dry summer,” one of the women told Olivia.
    Another woman, clad in a lace-trimmed tank top that was several sizes too small for her generous chest, pointed a cherry-red acrylic nail at a man chalking the end of his pool cue. “Boyd said his pigs have been lying in the mud for weeks.” She cocked her head at Olivia. “Do you know about pigs?”
    “Only that I like bacon.” Olivia smiled. “But I didn’t think it was unusual for them to roll around in the mud. I thought that’s how they kept cool.”
    “Sure is,” a second woman agreed. “But it ain’t normal for them to do it all the time. See, when they carry somethin’ around in their mouths—a stick or a bone or somethin’—then you know it’s gonna rain. When they just lie there in the dirt for days on end, a dry season’s comin’.”
    A man wearing a black NASCAR shirt elbowed his way into the group. “The ants are all scattered too.” He looked at Olivia. “When they walk in a nice, neat line like little soldiers, then we’re gonna have a storm. I got a big nest right outside my front door and they haven’t lined up in ages. It’s no good.”
    “Woodpeckers aren’t hammerin’ neither,” another man added, and someone else mentioned how the robins had left his yard weeks ago and that he was certain they’d gone west into the mountains. “The